A Bunny For All Seasons

After the pledge of allegiance, a reciting of a biblical psalm and a prayer, the teachers at Blountstown Elementary School gathered us children together. The announcement? The theme of 1976 school pageant would be “A Holiday Celebration”. Christmas had already been snagged by the kindergarten class. The third graders, St. Patrick’s Day. The fourth graders, Fourth of July. I forget what the holidays the other classes were interpreting. All I know is we, the second graders would be performing a thrill ride to the edge of the separation of church and state: Easter. The star of our section would be both Jesus and the Easter Bunny. In that order.

Jesus would not have to audition. His was an offer. It was a foregone conclusion that Donald Porter would be our savior. He was blonde and perfectly proportioned. Clearly the most beautiful white boy among us. He would, also, look the most fetching in a white toga. I adored Donald Porter and was a fan. My enthusiasm went a little too far when I tried to hug him. Shoving me straight to the ground, he was having none of it

“Who will be our Bunny?” Ms. Smith wondered aloud as she marched a group of us up to the chalkboard. There she placed us like a police lineup, short to tall. I towered over the others; I was literally on the tall end. Over the top of her rhinestone encrusted cat spectacles, she looked us up and down. “I want you all the pretend to be rabbits”, she said.

Most of the kids hopped and some, confused about the species, cleaned their faces like cats. My moment had come. I had a rabbit at home and my keen observation of rabbit behavior led me to nibble at a pretend carrot and thump at my ear with my knee. Every once-in-a-while she would look my direction. I knew something about being noticed.

I was called to the front of the class that afternoon and it was settled. I would be playing the Easter Bunny. I’d like to think they cast me for my commitment to the role of Easter Bunny. Sheer talent and Lagomorphan instinct. However, thinking back, I’m sure that what really got me the part was my ability to fit the costume. Already a big boy, I filled out the large white fuzzy rabbit costume with polka dot bow tie. Type casting being so important in the entertainment world. That, as they say, is showbiz.

Others in the class were handed lesser roles of spring flowers and baby animals. My star was almost dimmed when three boys were cast to play out the passion of Christ. Two African American boys were cast as Roman Centurions and would jeer and whip Donald Porter as he lugged a cross up the steps of the cafeteria’s shiny concrete stage. Lucky for me, the skit with Jesus and his masochistic duo was canceled. Told to cease and dismiss. Due to an outrage of taste and a threatened lawsuit from the town’s only atheists.

Rehearsals were fast and furious and took the place of recess. Which was more than all right with me. The playground simply wasn’t my milieu. I was only too happy to stay inside and sharpen my performance. My role was a simple one. Arms outstretched the children sat around the stage dressed in various costumes singing “Here Comes Peter Cottontail”. I then hopped around the stage and handed out imaginary Easter eggs filled with candy.

Unfortunately, there were some tears. My “It Factor” was simply too much for some and they became vocally unhappy. This was my first brush with old-fashioned show biz jealousy. There were lots of talks from the teachers about being “good sports” and not being “sore losers”. Even so, I could feel the class turning on me.

For a seven-year-old, what is right in front of you is all that matters. One day you are one of the gangs and then the next day you are plucked out of obscurity and in charge of their Easter candy. Kids stopped sitting with me at the lunch table. Some refused to play Charlie’s Angels with me during recess. To be fair that may have been because I always insisted on playing Jacqulyn Smith.

The morning of the performances I boarded the school bus with high hopes and essential props: a Piggly Wiggly bag containing a basket, green Easter grass and silver eggs. Mom had forgotten that she oversaw my bunny props and ran around the night before collecting silver panty hose eggs from neighbor women.

After the morning ritual of the pledge of allegiance, a quote of a Psalm and a prayer, a teacher jammed me into my rabbit outfit. Only the second time, past the initial fitting, I had worn it. The ears did not stand up straight and drooped to my shoulders. I kept having to push them out of my face. My hands were stuffed into white mittens two sizes too big. They were very furry and made it a challenge to hold the slippery panty hose eggs. Backstage I kept dropping them.

Kids couldn’t stay quiet or still. One scary fifth grade teacher carried a paddle like a prison warden and threatened us with corporal punishment if we moved or talked.

Painfully, a kindergarten teacher with body odor and a terrible case of acne drew whiskers on my face with her eyebrow pencil as if she was carving a jack-o-lantern.

A boy whose nose and mouth always seemed to be chapped was playing a baby possum. His name was Chester and in first grade he peed on the bathroom floor and had to wear a sign that said, “I am a pig”. (He was obsessed with me). He put his hand on one my ears and grinned at me with an orange mouth full of blackened baby teeth. An African American boy dressed as a black jellybean sat slumped in a corner and was refusing to go onstage.

When the singing started, I was so focused on that poor jellybean being dragged kicking and screaming out of the corner that I almost missed my cue. The fifth-grade teacher literally shoved me on. I entered to a lot of “awws” and even a smattering of applause. I hopped while the children sang. I did manage to hold on to my props. However, I handed out all my Leggs’ eggs a little too quickly, so that I had finished early, before the end of the song. Even at a young age, I knew I would have to fill and repeated my earlier audition improv, nibbling away at my pretend carrot. The crowd laughed and gave me a large round of applause.

The matinee performance, the first of my two-show day, couldn’t have gone better.

Afterwards, the backstage was another story. The jellybeans began pushing each other and the baby possum wet his pants. I was given notes by a girl dressed as some sort of fairy. Her parents were rare atheists and let her participate only if she didn’t represent a Christian symbol. Her hands on her hips and her wings flapping, she yelled at me, “You’re supposed to hand the eggs out to everyone!”

It was true. I had only given eggs to only a few. Only my boy crushes had been given eggs. Steve Cox, who smelled like playdough, got two. That dreamy Jesus Donald Porter now played a lamb and he, I’m almost ashamed to admit, got most of my basket. I did save one of the eggs for one of the girls that all the boys loved and who I secretly wanted to be: Karen Lilly. As soon as we got off stage, Steve Cox threw his eggs at me. Even at that early age I think he suspected what I was up to. No one really appreciated my talents.

I arrived home to rest up for the evening performance: a large bowl of Cookie Crisp, a back-to-back sampling of Gilligan’s Island, The Brady Bunch and My Three Sons. After a much-needed respite, I was refreshed and felt that I could use my earlier experience as a learning tool for the evening performance.

My parents dropped me off at the back and joined the other families in the elementary school cafeteria. This time a silence descended over my fellow thespians. There were looks and rolled eyes. The boys wouldn’t make eye contact. One little girl dressed as a tulip stuck her tongue out at me. The godless fairy simply crossed her eyes and turned away. The baby possum was nowhere to be found. One of the jellybeans, a yellow one, had been paddled and was trying to “dry it up” as the fifth-grade teacher put it. I was once again thrown into my costume and bewhiskered. I hopped into the wings. The other children took their places.

The singing began and this time I was determined to stay focused and catch my cue. As I entered, though, a little girl, dressed as a baby chick, kicked me and I dropped my basket. The eggs broke apart and rolled down across the stage and burst. Between the first and second shows someone thought it would be a good idea to fill the eggs with candy and jellybeans flew everywhere. Children started squealing and racing on all fours to catch the candy.

At first, I tried to stay in character. Panic set it, though and I instead started hopping faster and faster I swatted with my big furry gloves trying to grab pieces of the eggs to get them back into my basket. At this point teachers were all over the stage grabbing children. The tulip girl slapped the fairy. The black jellybean ran around the stage. Only one egg remained intact. A little girl dressed as a chick, and I dove for it at the same time. The silver egg split apart and out sprung a pair of nude pantyhose that the chick and I began to pull in a tug of war.

Beyond us was a great roar. The whooshing waves of laughter. For, the audience truly fell apart. My own parents were doubled over on the second row. It was truly addictive and from then on I was an addict. For weeks it was all they could talk about. To friends, to relatives they told the story over and over again. Every time everyone bursting into laughter.

Since then, I have had many costume mishaps on the stage. In college, my fly was down opening night of the Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. The performances are live, and shit happens. When it happens, as an actor and as an audience, all you can do is laugh. That first time, however, was the first real laugh from an audience that really counted …and that has led me straight to you.

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